The Funeral

He was a quiet man. Never spoke much, but his eyes smiled when he smiled. The job he did was dangerous, to say the least. Blowing up bombs and unexploded ammunitions was his speciality, so much so, that he went to Afghanistan twice with the Air Force and came back unscathed.

Week and a half ago, on the thursday, he was on his last mission of the day. He and his partner located an unexploded shell with a GPS device and mark with an wooden stake so that they can later, use a controlled explosion. His partner ran to the Geep to get a piece of paper to write down the location while he hammered the wooden stake into the ground. The blast killed him instantly. He was forty six. Had a wife and three kids.

He had two funerals, the family one was supposed to be sombre, but in the end friends and family remembered him as he was. Quiet man with a wry sense of humour. The funeral was informal, funny and poignant. The Air force funeral was formal but with a deep sense of understanding of the family's loss. The occasion was important enough for the Prime Minister to be there along with all the bigwigs from the armed forces. His wife spoke about how he was her soulmate and his daughter talked about her father ending his life doing what he did best, blowing up stuff. He had a blast, she said. I thought that was a courageous thing to say, very non politically correct, but courageous.

Finally with the gun salutes, the bugles and the Haka he was laid to rest. We headed home and I couldn't but help thinking that if he had known, he'd have thought it was a huge fuss about nothing, smiling his usual smile.

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